


Talking Stick

by Little Otter (Macedon)



Series: Talking Stick/Circle [1]
Category: Star Trek: Voyager
Genre: Gen, Maquis, Native American Character
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 1996-09-16
Updated: 1996-09-16
Packaged: 2017-10-09 07:44:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 7,695
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/84699
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Macedon/pseuds/Little%20Otter
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Chakotay and Tuvok develop a tentative friendship, set against the backdrop of a storytelling group which has grown up spontaneously on Voyager.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. I

**Author's Note:**

> "Like no other inhabitants of the United States, Indians have for centuries nourished our imagination, weaving in us a complex skein of guilt, envy, and contempt; yet, imagining that we see "the Indian," we often see little more than the distorted reflection of our own fears, fancies, and wistful longings. Meanwhile, live Indians are, in a sense, our national nightmare, figments of a guilty imagination ... reminders of a history that we would prefer not to remember ... the transformation of Indian Country is much more than a passing phenomenon at the margins of American society. Readers who expect a single uncomplicated portrait of the modern Indian will not find one, for "the Indian," as such, really exists only in the leveling lens of federal policy and in the eyes of those who continue to prefer natives of the imagination to real human beings."
> 
> from KILLING THE WHITE MAN'S INDIAN,  
> F.M. Bordewich, c1996
> 
> Originally posted at the [Trekiverse](http://trekiverse.org/efiction/viewstory.php?sid=6) archive.

He-d'ho!

I want to call here the ancestors. I want to call here the ancestors of my people. They're in my heart; I carry them with me. Their hands are on my back when I talk. They keep me from falling. I think of them often, here, where the only soil from the land of my birth is that held in a bag which Starfleet regulation does not permit me to carry.

My legal name is Joseph Chakotay. My father was a meda, medicine man, among Potawatomi, first in Oklahoma and later on a colony world which lies now in the de-militarized zone between Federation space and the Cardassian Empire. My mother was Hopi and Dine (Navajo) and Nee Me Poo (Nez Perce), born in Arizona. She it was who gave me the name Chakotay. When I came of age, my father named me Peshewa. Wildcat. Starfleet gave me the name Joseph, and how I got that was something of a joke.

Potawatomi and Wea and Shawnee; Hopi and Navajo and Nez Perce; even a bit of Crow and Aztec. Spanish and French and Bengali, too. I have in me the blood of most of North America, and a little of Europe and the Indian subcontinent. These are my ancestors. Their hands are on my back; they keep me from falling.

When I was a boy, I was not much concerned with my ancestors. I spent my life with my nose in a book and my mind in the stars; I lived unconnected to the Earth, or to the bones of my people who lay in it. When I went away to the Academy, I put on a cadet's uniform and packed away my medicine bag so I could go about as naked as the rest, just another cadet, not son of the meda. You see, we Indians have our version of "PK"s, too. I was as rebellious at sixteen as any preacher's kid I've ever met. I lived separated from myself, my bag in a bottom drawer of my standard-issue dresser, an embarrassment in leather. But my earth lay in it, my grounding, the root of my soul. It was many years before I understood that, like a plant cut off from soil and water, I was dying.

Now here I am, a little less than seventy lightyears from the soil of my birth, and I don't even know how to mark the Directions. In space, it's rather meaningless, I suppose: north, south, east, and west. And yet it has the greatest of meanings precisely where its literal meaning fades. But then, I might say that of life in general. I find myself when I'm coming apart. Experience holds the greatest meaning when it appears to hold the least. This is why we tell stories: to understand who we are when our lives are coming apart. Therefore, I will tell you a story.

***

Recycled air has a smell that is no smell: flat, like stale beer or dull chrome. And artificial light strains the eyes and stunts the senses, but one never seems to notice until one stands under a sun again. At this point, I was wishing for a sun and fresh air. Any sun would do, even the orange one of 40 Eridani. But then, I'm partial to Vulcan; the wide sky reminds me of Arizona where my mother was born, even if the color is all wrong.

I was walking down the corridor outside the mess hall, thinking of yellow suns—or orange ones. The most incredible crash halted my progress. It sounded as if good Neelix had opened a pantry full of precarious pots which had immediately collapsed atop him. Backtracking three steps, I walked through the door. The smell of hot oil flowed out around me into the corridor.

It was not Neelix in the kitchen. It was Tuvok. Tuvok in an apron to keep off the grease, spoon in one hand, measuring-cup full of what looked like yogurt in the other.

I nearly turned and walked out again. Tuvok makes me uncomfortable. Partly it's because he's a Vulcan and while I may like their desert, I've never been quite comfortable around Vulcans. Partly it's because he and the captain have known one another so long. Sometimes I wonder who's the First Officer on Voyager: him or me. Insecurity, I realize, but there it is. Yet he also makes me uncomfortable because he made a fool of me and I'm proud enough for that to be painful. He was doing his duty; I know this. In his shoes, I might have done much the same. But humiliation is humiliation and I'm not sure it's something I can ever quite forgive. So that day, I nearly walked out. I didn't perhaps because I felt the hands of my ancestors on my back and they held me up.

At the whoosh of door, Tuvok had looked over. "Commander."

"Lieutenant." I glanced around. There were no piled pots in evidence. "Uh, did I...." I stopped; his eyebrow was up in that way he had: a mixture of patient impatience, and humor at human foibles. "Nevermind." He returned his attention to the skillet. "What are you making?"

"Besan Kadhi." He poured the yogurt into the skillet and stirred. I glanced in. The stuff was yellow with tumeric; I could smell its scent.

"I didn't know tumeric was a Vulcan spice."

"It is not," he said, having completely missed the jest. "Nor is the dish a Vulcan dish."

"What is it? Indian?"

"Indeed."

"Where did you learn to cook Indian?" What I wanted to ask him was where he had learned to cook at all. Tuvok had never struck me as the sort to tie on aprons and wave wood spoons in the air.

"My wife," he said.

There was a stool in the corner. I had seen Kes perch on it in the past while she watched Neelix concoct his strange concoctions. Pulling it over, I sat down. I really should have been concluding my tour, but this was too interesting. Tuvok continued to stir the skillet mixture. "So where did your wife learn? I assume she's Vulcan, not Terran."

"My wife spent some time in New Delhi, with a Terran dance- company. They were performing a modern ballet based on the Bhagavad Gita."

"Ah." I leaned into the counter. The smell of food was  
making my stomach growl. "That's right, your wife's a dancer. Her name's T'Pel, right?"

"That is correct." He plopped a plateful of puffy-looking dumplings into the yogurt mix.

"Why are you cooking your own dinner?"

Head lowered, only his eyes moved to look at me. "I wished something...edible."

I howled; I couldn't help it. He had not meant to be funny. Tuvok's sense of humor was amputated at birth, I think—and not just because of his culture. I've met funny Vulcans. They always pretend they don't mean to be, but it's perfectly evident that they do. The only way Tuvok is funny is when he doesn't mean to be. Like now. He stood staring at me for the briefest moment, then returned to stirring the bubbling mass in the skillet. I could almost hear him think, 'Humans!'

After a moment he pulled the skillet free. Clearly he was ready to eat. I stood, meaning to go. I had not, in fact, meant to stay so long in the first place and could not have said why I had. Now, as if drawn by the same inexplicable motivation, he said, "There is enough of this for two." His face remained impassive but a muscle in one cheek twitched. I remembered all the times I had seen him, shoveling in food absently while he read a booktape.

He's lonely, I thought. I don't know why it had never occurred to me before. Vulcans seem so damned self-sufficient, islands unto themselves. But he was the only Vulcan on this ship, the only one of his people for parsecs and parsecs. And if I felt disconnected from my ancestors, at least I was on a ship where ninety percent of the people had blood the same color as mine. Nor had I left a wife and children behind me, either.

"It's been years since I had Indian food that didn't come out of a replicator," I told him. "I'd be honored."

"It is, of course, without meat."

"I don't mind," I said. He measured out brown rice into two bowls, poured the Besan Kadhi over the top.


	2. II

"This is good, Tuvok. Hot. I like hot."

His look said, Would I have served it to you, had I thought it would not be? But aloud, he said only, "I believe the correct response is 'Thank-you.' And it is hot because there are hot peppers in it, or rather, the equivalent."

"How'd you come by the chickpea flour?" I asked when my mouth was empty. Something about Tuvok always put a man on his best manners.

"It is not chickpea flour." He did not ask me how I had known it was supposed to be chickpea flour and I was rather disappointed. I had wanted to show off a little knowledge before this Vulcan who always seemed to know everything about everything. But my curiosity reached further than my pride.

"So what is it, then?"

He paused a moment and twirled his fork thoughtfully. "I believe Neelix named it 'Shakh' flour."

"Sounds like a swear word, not a plant."

"It serves; the taste is nearly identical, or so far as I can tell. Your senses may detect some difference."

"Why?"

His eyebrow hopped but he did not look at me. He speared another of the dumplings. "The human sense of smell and taste is sharper than the Vulcan."

I sat back. "Well, I'll be jigger-jaggered. Something humans can do better than Vulcans."

"You'll be...what? No matter. But yes, humans do have a superior olfactory sense. Then again, most predatory animal species have superior olfactory senses."

Surprise overwhelmed any insult I might have felt. "Tuvok! You just made a joke!" I had, it seemed, misjudged my colleague.

Now he did look up at me. "There is no need to be insulting, commander. Vulcans do not 'joke.'"

I didn't bother to reply, but would listen to him more closely in the future. "So what else do humans do better than Vulcans, Mr. Tuvok?"

"I am not certain that 'better' is the operative, but there are a number of differences between vulcanoid and humanoid senses. If you are interested in a comparative study, I am certain the doctor could provide you with a list of citations for relevant articles."

"Tuvok"—I waved my fork, exasperated—"_summarize_ them." I didn't have time to chase down articles.

"As you wish." He paused and stared off at a point over my left shoulder. "As I indicated, the humanoid sense of smell is sharper, better able to distinguish shades of difference. Yet vulcanoid hearing is superior to humanoid, particularly in the higher frequencies."

"It's the ears."

"Indeed, the size of our ears has something to do with it, but not wholly. The real differences are internal." He took a bite, chewed it thoroughly, then went on. "Vulcan sight is also superior in some respects: clarity at distances, detection of motion, as well as an ability to see energy patterns. But we cannot distinguish differences in color so well, particularly towards the ultraviolet end of the spectrum. I suspect you would find seeing through my eyes both dizzying and rather dull."

I had always assumed Vulcan senses were the same as human because Vulcans looked similar. But externals were deceptive. I should have known better. More, learning that they had less ability to distinguish between colors explained something I had noticed the two times I had visited Vulcan.

For the most part, Vulcans dressed in duns, or bright red or yellow. But sometimes one would see a person wearing two shades of blue that didn't quite match. At the time, I'd chalked it up to the Vulcan version of no fashion-sense. Now I realized the Vulcans had no doubt thought their clothing color-coordinated; my human eyes could see a difference theirs could not.

Conversation faltered while I pondered Vulcan eyesight and Tuvok pondered his dinner. Finally, I shook myself and asked, "Where were you born, Tuvok?"

He did not reply immediately. Had I overstepped myself? I remembered my first visit to Vulcan when, cooped up in a bulletrain cabin for seven hours with two Vulcan women beautiful enough to make one weep, I had made the mistake of trying small-talk. I had been young enough to think my looks an excuse. Finally, one had met my eyes and said, "I shall cease to answer questions which in all politeness ought not to have been asked."

I almost expected Tuvok to say the same, but finally he replied, "Tal-Mor'el. I doubt you have heard of it."

He was right. "Where is it located?"

"At one time, it was a fishing village on the Ashal Sea. Now its main industry is salt distillation for commercial use."

"Is that what you father did?"

"No, that is what my mother did. My father was a detective in the province police department."

I nearly spit Besan Kadhi and brown rice. "Police? I didn't think Vulcans needed police."

"A common misconception. The crime rate is, indeed, lower than on any other Federation member world." He said this with that annoying air of Vulcan superiority. "But there is still a need for police for many reasons, not all of which have to do with crime control."

"So you followed in your father's footsteps."

He considered this. "In a manner of speaking."

"I bet he's proud of you."

"Commander, Vulcans do not indulge in that kind of pride. Let us say that he was satisfied with my occupational choice." I chuckled and let him keep his dignity. "Commander," he went on then, "if I may ask—what occupation did your father engage in?"

Ah, Tuvok, I thought. You're learning. "My father repaired computers and grew the best tomatoes in Oklahoma. He was also the muskekewininee, the medicine man, for our people, though that was his vocation, not his occupation." I paused and thought a moment, "I can still remember sneaking out into the greenhouses as a boy, picking tomatoes and eating them on the spot. He always caught me because I invariably got juice on my clothes."

I could see that he had no idea how to answer this so I changed the subject. "Tell me a story about the Ashal sea, Tuvok. I've never sailed a Vulcan sea."

"Neither do I."

"No?"

"I believe the common human term for my aversion to water is 'sea-sickness.'"

I chuckled. "So, tell me a story about the sea anyway."

Tuvok, who had finished eating, pushed back his bowl and regarded me thoughtfully. "Commander, I must confess myself confused. You are somewhat older than my children, and it has been some time since any of them wished to hear a story, about the sea or anything else. Vulcans do not tell stories."

"Bullshit, Tuvok. I've seen collections of Vulcan myths and legends. I admit, I've never read more than one or two, but I know they exist. Your people do tell stories."

"Such myths and legends date well before Surak," he said, cocking his head to the side. "They reflect a time before we had an accurate understanding of the world. They are illogical."

Mopping up the last of the Besan Kadhi with a piece of nan, I popped it in my mouth and chewed, using the time to gather my thoughts. Swallowing, I said, "The illogic you speak of is only on the surface...you're only looking at the surface, Tuvok. At their roots, stories are fundamentally logical, even those which seem the most fantastic. They have more purpose than just to entertain children. Stories explain us to ourselves. They are autobiographies of our culture. When you forget the stories of your people, you forget yourself."

He thought about that. I could almost seem him turning it over and over behind those dark eyes. "I will consider what you have said." He rose. "And I will also try to remember a 'story of the sea.' But now, it is time for me to return to duty—and no doubt, for you as well."

I grinned at him. "I'll see you on the bridge in five, Tuvok."


	3. III

I can't really remember how it got started, but it certainly caught on fast enough. As I had said to Tuvok, stories remind us of who we are. Out here, we needed reminded frequently so once a week, some of the crew gathered in the messhall to tell stories. It was breakfast for one shift and dinner for the other. Second and fourth shift have, I understand, formed another group.

It started more or less spontaneously, and had nothing to do with me. I might have left it so, afraid the presence of one of the commanding officers would be a wet blanket. But one evening around dinner time, Jinn Cherel and Chaim Anielewicz showed up at my door. They had been a couple among the marquis since before we had come to be on Voyager: a Bajoran and a Conservative Jew. And—as couples sometimes will—they had made a center off which the rest of my crew had spun like spokes around a hub. Now, one took my right arm and the other my left and escorted me down to the messhall without explanation. When we arrived, I found the circle patiently waiting. It opened to admit Cherel, Chaim and myself. They sat me down in a chair. "Is there something you wanted, crewpeople?" I grinned to take the edge off it.

"We want," said Kes, "to hear a story." Standing behind her, Neelix nodded.

"A story," I said. Nineteen heads had nodded back. Taking a deep breath and wetting my lips, I had said: "Well, all right. This one is about Nanahboozhoo, the Son of the West Wind. It belongs to the mediwiwin festival, and where I was born, it's spring now, so I can tell it. But first, Chaim—go back to my quarters and get my Talking Stick." Grinning Chaim had hopped up to do as I had asked.

So it began. Slowly it grew and I, though I did not start it, somehow found myself its step-father. Most of the stories were not from folklore; I and Chaim probably told the most of that variety. The other stories were about Voyager, or people's lives before being assigned to Voyager, and a few fell into the category of urban legend. Sometimes someone brought a bit of fiction to read. Sometimes they made up stories on the spot, passing around the Talking Stick for each who wished to add a piece to the tale. The people in the circle changed, but the circle itself retained a certain continuity—and an informality. The latter, I encouraged. For one thing, after the first day, I never came again in uniform. Others began to follow suit until casual dress was an unspoken rule. Even newcomers showed up the first time out of uniform.

But there were few newcomers these days. Most of the crew had been to a circle at least once, to listen or to speak, with two significant exceptions: the captain, and Tuvok. Janeway had said it would be better for her to stay out of it, fearing the same thing I had feared at first—that her presence would put a damper on things. I had told her I didn't think it would, but she had disagreed. "You may be the First Officer, Chakotay, but there are still things you can get away with that I can't. Besides, you were invited. You already had a reputation as a storyteller. For me to show up—even out of uniform—would be something else again."

That Tuvok had never come was no surprise to anybody. Thus, when he did finally visit, it shocked us all. Me not least. He came quietly: a dark, silent presence who moved up to the circle edge in the semi-dark of the room.

I had begun the practice of lowering the lights so the shier among us might be encouraged to speak. Soft lighting also made it easier for people to come and go without distracting attention from the one speaking. And—if the truth be told—I just liked to have the lights low so we could see the stars out the window behind us. It reminded me of clear summer nights, but without the mosquitoes. Trouble was, none of these constellations was familiar.

I was sitting across the circle from the door when Tuvok came so I saw him first, framed by hallway lights, long robes swishing silently across the floor. Even had I thought he might come—out of curiosity, if nothing else—I would never have expected him to come in the dress of his people. Tuvok was one of those officers who seemed sewed into a uniform.

Despite his silence, his presence was palpable. Awareness of him grew among the listeners. Thank goodness the one speaking was too engrossed to notice till her story was done. It had been a funny tale, and laughter followed, but a laughter which watched out of the corner of its eye the one who did not laugh. I didn't know what to say, whether to note his presence or not. Yet I had made it my business to welcome new faces and if I did not do so now, it might be taken as a slight—not by Tuvok, but by others: disgruntled Marquis who found Tuvok and his rules tedious, or suspicious Federation who still did not entirely trust me and probably wished Tuvok had my rank.

"Tuvok," I said, "welcome to our storytelling circle." He inclined his head slightly. "I don't suppose," I continued, "that you came to tell us a story about the Vulcan seas?" I couldn't imagine what else he was doing there. A few of the listeners gave me a double-take at the mention of Vulcan _seas_.

"I have not," Tuvok said. "I came to listen." And he said nothing more, sat down cross-legged on the floor where Kes had made room for him. He listened, and after, he slipped out again before I had time to speak to him.

After that, he came regularly. When Vulcans decide to do a thing, they're nothing if not consistent—predictable, one could say. He sat on the floor beside Kes, who had been blessed with that natural sympathy which accepted even wet skunks and taciturn Vulcans. The first few times, his presence put people off, but after a while, they took it in stride. Tuvok just was, like the stars outside and the ever-present hum of warp engines.

He's lonely, I thought once again. Even in a crowd, he's lonely. Vulcans might pretend to have no feelings, but that had never fooled anyone who knew them. Tuvok was there, hanging on the fringe of a group not quite sure if it wanted him, because he had a need to be with other warm bodies—even if it was a need he barely recognized, much less knew how to articulate. To hang on the fringe was better than to spend one's evening alone, which was what he usually did.

So he sat on the edge and listened to stories—humorous or serious or tragic—and kept his own counsel. One evening after B'Elanna had told a story about her childhood which she had meant to be funny but which had shown the pain beneath, Tuvok followed me out of the room. This was the first time he had approached me off-duty since we had shared dinner four months ago. "You said," he began, "that stories remind us of who we are. It seems to me that, for emotional races, such remembering is not always a... good thing."

"Pain is part of life, Tuvok. If we lose our pain, we lose ourselves as much as if we lose our joy or our senses of humor." I did not bother to add any qualifiers about 'emotional races' and used the 'we' deliberately. If he recognized this, he did not comment on it.

"But I do not understand. If an event is...painful...then what is the point of retelling it, much less attempting to clothe it in _humor_." He said the last word as if it had tasted bad.

"Humor sustains us. People who have been oppressed, or who have suffered greatly, need humor to survive. It's an old truism that the best comedians led tragic lives. And people in ER crack jokes to get through. We need our senses of humor, or we break like old china. Love and hate, pain and joy, laughter and tears—they're each two sides of the same coin. If we let ourselves laugh, then we can let ourselves cry when we need to."

I was very tempted to lecture him on the dangers of bottling up feelings but bit my tongue. It would just go in one pointed ear and out the other, dismissed as human justification for rampant emotionalism. Let him draw his own conclusions.

He halted and bowed to me slightly, seeming very Vulcan. "I bid you good night, Commander." His flat voice told me he was working hard to suppress something volatile.

"Good night, Tuvok." He turned and walked off. "Tuvok!" I called. He paused, turned back. "You still owe me that story about Vulcan seas.

"Indeed," was all he said


	4. IV

"I don't know about the rest of you," I said, "but today has been a _Coyote_ day." A few people chuckled, those who had heard Coyote stories before and knew what I meant. Smiling, I set the Talking Stick across my lap. "It's been the kind of day that reminds me it's Coyote, not his brother, who has all the power. That's why things sometimes go—" I wiggled my hand back and forth, smiled again. More people laughed this time. It had been a Coyote day for more people than just me. Voyager had suffered one of those times when nine things go wrong at once and as soon as you fix one, it sets off something else. "A Coyote day," I went on. "Coyote was having fun with us today because Coyote has all the power. So I thought I'd tell you a story about how Coyote got all the power. This is a Winterdance festival story I heard from an old Crow storyteller, and it's winter now in the place I grew up, so I can tell it."

I shifted again and settled more comfortably. "Before the world was as it is, Coyote and his brother came down. They each had two bags of power, given them by the winds of the Four Directions. Now, Coyote's brother, he was like us, he was a real straight arrow and he just went straight along; he had a path and he just went straight along. But Coyote, being Coyote and the sort he is, he sniffed about, scratched a bit, did this and that, looked about and pretty much made things the way they are today. He made it all—which is why things are bit, well, _strange_ at times. Coyote made them. They've got Coyote's mark on them." More laughter.

"Now, as Coyote's brother was coming around, he saw Coyote and waved to him and said, 'Hello, Coyote! How ya doing?' And Coyote said, 'I'm not Coyote. _You're_ Coyote.' Now, as you might imagine, his brother was a bit taken aback. He said, 'No, Coyote. I'm...Another One.'

"So Coyote's brother—who was a little annoyed with Coyote—takes his two bags of power and sits them up on a rock. Coyote takes his bags and does the same. Now a wager has been called and since it was Coyote's brother who called it, Coyote got to pick the terms. 'You see that group of people standing over there by that camp? We're gonna run by those people and we'll settle this,' Coyote said to his brother. 'You run by and then I'll run by and we'll see.'

"And so Coyote's brother goes running by the camp and the people say, 'Hey! There goes coyote!' Then Coyote runs by and they say, 'Hey! There goes another one!'" Chuckles all around. I smiled. "And that, my friends, is how Coyote got all the power. We have to be careful with Coyote, when he's feeling playful."

Kes raised her hand for the Talking Stick and I rose to hand it to her. "The Ocampa don't have Coyote," she said, smiling, "or, he doesn't call himself Coyote...." And she began a tale about the Ocampa version of the immortal Trickster.

After the circle broke up for the evening (evening to me), Tuvok approached. Since we had spoken following B'Elanna's story a few months ago, he had begun to wait for me after and we would share the walk back to our deck and our respective cabins. "Commander," he said now a little tentatively—or what passed for tentatively with Tuvok—"might you permit me to examine the staff which you carry? I do not wish to breach a custom but I have seen you allow others to hold it...."

I handed it to him. "You're not breaching a custom, Tuvok. The custom is to give the stick to whomever is speaking. It doesn't 'belong' to me; it's a symbol. It confers the honor of speaking before a people." He held the oak stick in his hands and turned it, frowning slightly as he looked at the carving along it. "This"—I pointed to the figure at the top—"is an Announcer. It's a privilege to call the people together, to speak before them." He nodded absently. That was something which, as a Vulcan, I knew he would understand.

"How did you come by it? Was it made for you?"

"It was given to my father, actually. About thirty years ago now, when he visited Earth, my father went to a meeting of Elders on the East Coast. The Sulish coastal peoples have this tradition of Talking Sticks. One of them said to my father, 'Winnemac, you always go about, speaking for your people. You need a Talking Stick,' and give him this one. My father took it with him to the colony, where he continued to speak for our tribe as the medicine man. When the Cardassians came, and killed him, and when I left Starfleet to join the maquis, my father's apprentice gave the stick to me. I became the voice of my people against oppression."

I had said all this matter-of-factly. Tuvok stopped looking at the stick to study my face. "I had wondered," he said, "why someone with your record would leave Starfleet to join the maquis." It was evident from his tone what he thought of the maquis resistance. I felt a point needed made here.

"I consider myself a peaceful man, Tuvok—but to choose peace is not to chose capitulation. And peace without justice is no peace at all. My people have spent five hundred years trying to pick up life from the fragments. We do not need to walk another trail of tears."

"I would...agree," he said, then looked down again at the stick still in his hands. He frowned, clearly troubled. "But I made an oath to Starfleet. I cannot break that oath or I break my honor."

"We each do what we feel we have to do, what we feel is right. I said before that it's not my place to judge you, Tuvok. You were working for Starfleet. As you said, you have an oath, and you were following orders." He seemed about to say something, but did not. I almost said what I thought he had meant to, but did not, either. We stood in the nearly empty messhall, not quite looking at one another and feeling awkward.

After a moment, and with a last run of his dark hand over the dark wood, he handed the Talking Stick back. "You may try not to judge, but you do, in fact, still hold it against me. Though I believe you do not wish to do so." He tilted his head. "I also believe that your people chose rightly, when they gave your father's staff to you. You are a...fitting...representative of your people in the Delta Quadrant, Commander."

"Thank-you, Tuvok. That...means a lot to me, coming from you."

He nodded once, turned on his heel, and went out, brown robes swishing against the doorway. I stood there a long time and thought about what he had said. And the beginnings of an idea began to grow in the back of my mind.


	5. V

The next time Voyager investigated a class-M planet, I asked Janeway for a few hours time while the away team conducted their investigations. "As long as nothing goes wrong, I suppose we could spare you for an hour or so. But I'd rather you not go alone."

"I'll take Kim."

Janeway turned her head to the ensign behind ops. "Mr. Kim, you're with Commander Chakotay." She glanced back at me. "Stay out of trouble, Commander."

"I'll do my best," I said, grinning at her.

I'd chosen Kim on purpose; he was young and seemed in search of a father figure. But I'd also chosen him because ever since his experience being 'dead' for a brief time, he had shown a nascent interest in the spiritual. I was inclined to foster it. I located a strand of trees by ships' sensors and had us beamed down nearby. Then I headed for them, Kim in my wake. "Where are we going, Commander?"

I glanced over my shoulder. "In here. Not far."

I was looking for a stick of wood, 2-3 feet in length, dry if I could find it, but I'd take green. Hardwood. Suitable for carving.

Most of the trees had woods too soft, but I found one which resembled maple in terms of the density. The color was closer to cherry. It would do perfectly, but there were no branches already broken. "Mr. Kim," I said, "hand me the lasersaw."

Regarding me oddly, he did so. I bowed to the tree and circled it three times to ask its permission. Then I climbed the trunk to a fork about 6 feet up, stood, and looked about for a suitable branch. It was not difficult to find. I sawed the branch free, circled the tree three times more, thanked it, and handed the saw back to Kim.

He had been watching the entire thing with interest. "Are you getting something for one of your rites?" he asked.

I grinned at him. "You might say that."

"Why were you walking around the tree?"

"To ask its permission to take a branch. One doesn't just take things from other living things, ensign. When I was done, I thanked it."

"How would you know if the tree didn't want you to take a branch?"

I might have laughed but poor Kim would have taken it ill. He asked such plain, straightforward questions. I was tempted to ruffle his hair but that would not do at all. "My guide led me this way. I didn't come upon the tree by chance. Things happen for a reason, ensign, at least important things." I held up the branch with its leaves and smaller branches still attached. "This will be a special thing, a holy thing—manitto—and it requires the blessing of the spirits in choosing it." I tossed the stick up and caught it, grinned at him and tapped my badge. "Chakotay to Voyager. Two to beam up."

"That's all you wanted?" Kim asked, as the beam caught us.

"That's all," I said as we materialized.

Kim seemed slightly put-out. "Why didn't you just replicate a branch?"

"It wouldn't be right, ensign. That wouldn't do at all. It can't be replicated; it has to be real."

I dismissed him then with my thanks. As he walked out, I overheard him mutter, "I'm not sure I see the difference." Almost, I called him back to try to explain, but decided I was not up to philosophy on the nature of reality, at the moment. I wasn't even sure I _could_ explain. But it did matter. I took the stick back to my quarters.

This was not something to be rushed. I had to cure the wood, which took a while. Then I had to purify it with cedar and sweetgrass, and pray over it. When it was ready, I stripped the bark, sanded it, and began.

It was an old hobby of mine, from boyhood, to carve wood. I enjoyed it because it gave my hands something to do and freed my mind to think, or meditate. But it had been some time since I had carved anything, and my hands weren't so sure. I went slowly as I had no desire to ruin it and be forced to start over. Besides, such things should not be rushed. In our replicator-world, we've become far too used to having things NOW. We've forgotten the virtue of patience. To carve wood is to learn patience. The symbols are released slowly, coming to life bit by bit under my fingers. And the carving itself is an experience: the smell of the wood—a little resiny—the feel of it. This cannot be "replicated." Gradually, the stick took shape under my hands. When I was done with the carving, I sanded the roughness smooth and stained some of it, then covered it in satin finish. The carving took me not quite five months, done in my off time. I was proud of it when I had finished, and debated just how I should present it to the one for whom it was meant.

Near the end of the next day's shift, while I was circling the bridge stations as I sometimes did, I stopped beside Tuvok. "Care to share supper, Mr. Tuvok?"

He twisted to look at me. Up went the eyebrow. "Is there a point behind the invitation, Commander?"

"Do I need one? But since you ask—yes, there is."

He nodded, thoughtful. "Then I accept."

"16:00? Come to my cabin."

"Agreed."

I had arranged for good southwestern chili, sans meat. He was, of course, exactly on time. But with Tuvok, what did one expect? The chili was consumed in short order over a discussion of the past week's events. He did not ask what my purpose was in asking him here. Vulcans were an unfathomable mix of the tactlessly blunt and the indirectly courteous. He would ask if I had a reason for inviting him, but would then wait for me to tell him what that reason was. Vulcans, I thought, understood the virtue of patience.

When we were done and I had put the plates in the recycler, I walked over to the corner where I had put the new Talking Stick. Carrying it back, I set it in his hands.

He studied it with great interest and a slowly dawning realization that it was for him. I suppose the Announcer on top rather gave it away; I had carved it with Vulcan-pointed ears. "This is a k'chanka interlock pattern," he said. "And this—this is Ntara." He twisted to look at me, his expression as close to wonder as I had ever seen it. "Ntara is the sigal of my home province." I just nodded. He returned to his study, naming each of the patterns I had carved into the wood. Finally, he looked at me and said, "I do not understand."

"Did I get something wrong?" I had spent hours researching, but I still did not know much about Vulcan symbolism. I had feared I might get something wrong.

"There is nothing incorrect." He ran a hand down the stick, feeling the slide of wood against skin. "But this is a work of many hours, and it was clearly made with me in mind. Yet I do not understand why you would...go to such trouble."

I nodded at the stick in his hands. "I was given my father's Talking Stick so that I might speak for my people. I've ended up doing that in a way I never expected. But while I may be the only Indian in the area, I'm hardly the only human. You are the only Vulcan. You speak for your people, so it seemed fitting that you have a Talking Stick."

He continued to look at me for a long time. Finally, he said, "But I am not the only person on Voyager who is the sole representative of his or her race. Neelix, Kes...."

I waved my hand to cut him off. I couldn't explain to him why I knew he needed the stick and they did not. It was an instinctive knowledge, a gut-reaction; it didn't bear analyzing. "Perhaps I'll make sticks for them some time. I enjoy carving. But it just seemed fitting to me that you have a Talking Stick."

He appeared to accept that he would get nothing more from me on the matter and rose, the stick in the crook of his arm. "I bid you good-night, Commander. I thank you for dinner, and for this"—he held up the stick. Then he left. When the door shut, it occurred to me that his thanks had been straightforward—no coming at it sideways to emphasize Vulcan logic and belittle human emotions.

"Tuvok," I said to the air, "I do believe you _are_ learning."


	6. VI

Some days later, when the storytelling circle met for the week, Tuvok arrived with his Talking Stick. It elicited much comment; I could only hope it did not elicit equal envy. When near the end, Tuvok rose, stick in hand, I can't say that I was surprised. I had been expecting it since he had shown up.

For almost a year, Tuvok had sat on the circle fringe, listening only. Now, realizing that he was finally going to tell a story himself, the circle's between-story chatter faded with astonishing alacrity. Looking at me, he said, "On several occasions, Commander, you have asked me for a story about the Vulcan seas. Originally, I meant to tell a story which dated from the time before the Reformation of Surak. There are many tales—historical and fictional—of pirates, or battles, or...I believe you would call them 'sirens'. But I choose to tell about none of these things. Something you said, some months ago now, decided me against them."

He switched the Talking Stick to the crook of his other arm. "This story takes place exactly one hundred standard years ago, and involves two brothers. Because the Vulcan life-span is longer, differences between siblings is often generational. We rarely 'grow up together', as do humans. So one of these two brothers was twenty-seven years old. The other was six. The elder was caring for the younger while their parents were...elsewhere.

"Their family lived in a harbor town on a sea. The younger brother had...desired...to be taken sailing for some time. He had been 'nagging'. To please him, the older brother finally agreed and they took out the family boat some way on the water. Yet the younger brother discovered he suffered from sea-sickness, so his older brother had him sit above-deck and look at the horizon while the older brother shifted the sail to go back in. It was a windy day and the sail boom snapped out of the older brother's hand. He grabbed for it, afraid it might strike his younger brother. Instead, it struck him on the side of the head, and unconscious, he fell overboard.

"The younger brother was still ill from sea-sickness, and had only begun to learn to swim. And his older brother was much heavier. He could not lift him onto the boat, nor did he know to turn him onto his back to keep his head above water. The boy panicked. His brother slipped away from him, and drowned."

I glanced around the circle. It was utterly silent. I knew where this story was going and suspected they did, too. My throat felt dry and I wanted to weep for the six-year-old who had lost his brother, and for the man who stood here now, a century later, forbidden by his culture to shed any tears. I wondered if he had ever cried.

Tuvok went on. "The boy did manage to get back into the boat and secure the boom, contact the coast guard. A shuttle came to retrieve him. The body of his brother was found later that day.

"No one blamed the child. He was young, and his brother should not have taken him out alone. Yet the child knew that, had he not panicked, had he thought logically about the situation, his brother might not have died. Some years later, when it came time for that boy to chose his occupation, he decided to pursue one in which he could learn how to deal more efficiently with crises. He became a police officer. Vulcan does, indeed, have police." Tuvok paused and tilted his head.  
"He also learned better how to swim—but he has not set foot on a boat since that day, and has no wish ever to do so. This is not logical, but it is true, nonetheless."

He shifted the Talking Stick again, held it out slightly and focused his eyes on the announcer on top. He did not look at the circle. "I was that child." Then he sat down.

***

Stories are sacred. Stories remind us of who we are. So long as we remember our stories, we will not forget our ancestors or where we come from. We will not forget ourselves.

 

He-d'ho!

**Author's Note:**

> The above story was conceived in something of a pique after watching "Initiations." I get tired of the Hollywood Plastic Medicine Man. I thought it time a native voice was heard, speaking for a native character. I gave him a background and nation, since no one else seemed inclined to do so, and I have endeavored to present something authentic as a counterbalance to the amorphous bit-of-this-bit-of-that-throw-it-in-the-stew "Native American spirituality" we've seen.
> 
> Although the original was written as a stand-alone piece, it generated a "sequel" of sorts, or perhaps an answer, written by Peg Robinson, telling Janeway's side of the story. That sequel is entitled "Circle" and should be available in the archive. I then wrote an answer to that ("A Cherished Alienation"), which generated a braided novel, with Peg and I passing the talking stick back and forth.


End file.
